


claws in your pocket

by parkernoir



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: 616, Character Study, major character deaths are canonical, peter parker you have issues, unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkernoir/pseuds/parkernoir
Summary: Peter Parker's had problems with anger his entire life. He knows where it came from, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that it's the worst thing about him. And it's never going to go away.It's bound to overcome him someday.
Relationships: (for a little bit) - Relationship, Peter Parker/Gwen Stacy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	claws in your pocket

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout charlie

It was nearly impossible to notice the feeling until it was too late. The feeling that swept through his veins in violent waves, replaced his blood with static and branded the inside of his skin. He always registered the fizzing in his chest just as it all burst out of him in every way it could- whether that be pouring out of his mouth or flying out of his fists. 

  
Peter was never a problem child. Not really. He was just an angry child. Sometimes he didn’t even feel like a person. He just felt like a bunch of anger mashed into the shape of a kid and sent out into the world. And then when he opened his mouth and spoke, nothing came out but the anger. Most of the time, he could push it down and pretend he was fine, that he felt fine, but then some kid would do something stupid like get in Peter’s way. And then Peter was shouting at the kid and the kid was crying and tapping the shoulder of the recess monitor and Peter was sitting in the office waiting for May to come pick him up. She’d ask what happened, and Peter would just shrug, because he didn’t really know. That stuff just happened. 

He never hurt anybody until middle school. Before, it was just mean glares from behind his round, thick glasses. Peter was content with releasing the pressure in his lungs with words. However, in seventh grade, somebody went too far. Carter Fendrich took his glasses and put them up precariously on a high shelf that Peter couldn’t possibly reach (even when he jumped and made himself look like a moron). Peter shouted and shouted for Carter to give him his glasses back, because he couldn’t see a damn thing, but Carter and his friends just laughed and laughed. Before Peter knew it, his skin was crawling all over itself and his fist was flying. Carter went to the nurse for an ice pack and Peter got sent to the principal’s office. Peter was almost sad he got his glasses back, because when Ben came to pick Peter up, his worried look was crystal clear. 

Even when Peter kept his anger under control, the harassment didn’t end. Even when Peter didn’t say anything, people hit. And they just kept hitting harder as the years went on. Peter grew familiar with the dry taste the crackers in the nurse’s office left in his mouth. 

Freshman year, nothing changed. He’d sit in class, minding his business, and suddenly there were shreds of paper in his hair. He’d be walking down the hall,  _ minding his business _ , and suddenly his books were all over the tiles. He’d walk past the cafeteria with his bagged lunch, again, minding his own business, and suddenly Flash Thompson was towering over him with a smirk on his stupid face. Maybe Peter should’ve just shut his mouth in middle school. Maybe he wouldn’t have a reputation, then. Maybe these people wouldn’t have a reason to attack him. But those were all maybes, and Peter did have a reputation, and nobody wanted to leave him the hell alone, so he’d shout back if he had to. What, was he supposed to lie back and take it?

Spider-Man was a good outlet. Now, Peter was allowed to hit people. He could hit them and feel good about it because they were bad people doing bad things. Finally, Peter had a way to release the fire scoring the inside of his ribcage- a way that had a positive impact on society! It was a win-win. A soaring, tumbling, twisting, web-slinging, bad-guy-punching, amazing win. 

But it wasn’t enough.    


  
Not after Ben died. 

Before Ben, Peter’s perpetual rage was targeted towards the world around him. It was an exterior anger; one that followed him like a storm cloud and punctured its way inside of its own accord. Peter could direct blame for the heaviness in his chest at other people- the people that scorned him, the people that bullied him, the people that hated him for no good reason. There was only one person responsible for the death of Ben Parker, and it was a stupid, stupid kid that let a madman with a gun run free. Peter could try. He could hide under his covers and try to force sleep, and he could listen to music to drown out the muffled sound of Aunt May crying, and he could throw punches at losers dressed in spandex, but there was a new anger settling in Peter’s head. It was a rage of a new species; one that stemmed entirely from a flesh-eating guilt.    
  
If the other anger was exterior, this new anger was interior. It lived permanently within Peter’s chest, rent-free, and gnawed at his bones. It whispered hatred into Peter’s ears, and it was right about every single thing he said. Now, Peter lived in a permanent state of anger. He was stuck in it. He was stuck with it. No matter what he did, it was there. 

So when someone looked at him wrong, or when Flash made fun of him, or May went to the hospital again, or when Jonah called Spider-Man a crook, Peter felt it. There was no pushing it down anymore. Just letting it fester and rot him from the inside out. 

  
And it was driving him crazy. 

Especially when he couldn’t hit back. For whatever reason- whether it was some kind of divine punishment for Peter’s audacity to exist or tragic chance- Flash got worse and worse. And worse. The bullying got harsher, and grew more frequent. Instead of distant laughs in the hallways, it was school supplies flying at Peter’s head on the march home. Instead of scribbles on his classwork, it was all of the contents of his backpack getting dumped into a toilet while Flash’s friends held him back by his arms. Instead of a few quick insults, it was getting shoved against the lockers and punched in the stomach. 

And Peter couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Spider-Man was a secret. Spider-Man had to stay a secret.    
  
So Peter had to roll over and take it. 

Junior year, Peter got more creative with ways to get back at his tormentors. He started talking to Flash’s off-and-on girlfriend, Liz Allan. She wasn’t really Peter’s type in friend- not that he’d had enough to gauge that properly. She called him ‘Petey’. He hated being called Petey. But it was worth it, to piss Flash off. Sure, it just got him roughed up more, but the dopey look on Flash’s stupid face was absolutely priceless. 

Along with strategy, Peter had to branch out with his insults. Calling people morons wasn’t enough to sate his rage after a certain point. Spider-Man’s enemies were the perfect group to test drive jeers at. Sometimes, Peter would reuse the best ones on Flash. If Peter was gonna get ridiculed no matter what, he might as well have some fun with it, right?

  
  


“Morning, Puny.” Flash said smugly, leaning up against Peter’s locker. Peter wished the fabric of Flash’s stupid letterman would get stuck in the hinges and unravel until the jacket was just a pile of string.    
  
Peter stopped his ground and gripped the straps of his backpack tightly. A bit of anger seeped into the nylon. Through his non-prescription glasses, Peter glared at the white tiles below his feet. It was unsatisfying not to meet Flash’s eyes, but Peter had to do whatever he could to deescalate the situation. “You’re in front of my locker.”    
  
“The goggles actually work!” Flash laughed, flicking a speck off of his sleeve. Peter watched it drift to the ground, because if he watched whatever proud smile Flash was wearing, he’d get much closer to snapping. 

“Kinda the point of glasses, genius,” Peter mumbled, eyes drifting up and around towards the ceiling. Somebody had managed to get a number two pencil stuck in one of the tiles. Peter gripped the straps of his backpack tighter. He could just shove Flash, get to his textbooks, and be on his merry way. He could push Flash halfway down the hallway if he felt like it. He could rip his letterman in half. He could rip his locker door off its hinges and smack Flash in the face with it.    
  
“Move along, Parker.” Flash said, and crossed his arms. 

Peter lifted his chin and looked Flash defiantly in the face- a result of years of experience and nights of daydreaming. But he couldn’t do a thing. “Yeah, whatever.” He huffed, and tried to storm past.    
  
Flash’s sturdy forearm slammed against Peter’s chest. Peter pretended to stumble backwards. 

“What gives?” Peter snapped without thinking. He pushed his glasses back up from where they’d slipped down his nose. 

“Saw you talking to Liz over by the library yesterday.” Flash prompted casually. He looked pissed. 

“I distinctly remember you telling me to move along about three seconds ago.” Peter replied flatly. He should’ve just walked away, but it was too easy. “You know, I’m working on a theory that your brain was replaced with the brain of a goldfish, and-”

“Shut up, Parker!” Flash shouted. He held his hands up and shoved them against Peter’s shoulders. Once again, Peter had to pretend to be thrown off balance by it. He put a foot behind him to give off the illusion that he had to sturdy himself. The most infuriating part of it all was throwing away his pride.    
  
“I didn’t talk to Liz.” Peter said with his hands raised. He smiled a bit when he finished, “She talked to me.” 

  
  


May asked about the bruise on Peter’s forehead when he got home. Peter was mostly surprised that the purple splotch was still there. “It’s fine,” Peter assured her, swinging his backpack around to his front. He wanted to punch Flash right in the nose. “I got hit with a basketball during P.E.”    
  
The encounters with Flash varied in violence. Sometimes, it was just a flick on Peter’s forehead or a fake invitation to hang out. Other times, Peter got stuck in the bathroom shoving toilet paper into his nose just to stop the endless red river flowing out of it (because it would’ve been too suspicious if Peter dodged that punch). 

  
  


College wasn’t any better. For a while, it seemed like the light at the end of a dark, dark tunnel, but not much changed. Flash Thompson was still there. May was still in and out of the hospital. People- even jerks Peter had never met in his entire life- hated Peter. And- and he was trying now. He was talking to people and reaching out and being kind and finally attempting to come out of his shell, but all he was met with was scorn. 

He took it out on crooks, but the blood on his knuckles was beginning to feel less like a reward and more like routine.    
  
Gwen smiled like there wasn’t a thing wrong in the world. And the complete madness of that sentiment- smiling despite everything- made Peter smile too. Gwen pulled expressions out of Peter he didn’t even know he could make anymore- goofy, zoned out gazes; dopey grins; awkward simpers. She poked at his anger and let it melt away, if only for a few moments, and Peter wanted to chase that feeling for the rest of his life. Her life. 

“Have you picked a movie yet?” Mary Jane asked impatiently, draped upside-down over the back of Harry and Peter’s couch. The ends of her scarlet hair brushed the hardwood languidly.    
  
Gwen, sat on the couch like a normal human being, shook her head. “No, because  _ somebody  _ thinks movies that are over two hours are ‘too long’.” She glared pointedly at Peter. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry that I think they should’ve figured out how to condense the sons of guns down by now.” Peter lamented from his spot next to Gwen, scrolling through the movie listings. It was hard to focus on what films he could tolerate when Gwen had her legs crossed over his. “I don’t really care. Why doesn’t wonderboy pick?” 

Flash, who was in the charming process of ransacking Harry and Peter’s entire kitchen, took great offense to being called ‘wonderboy’. “What’s your deal, Puny?” He asked teasingly, holding a tortilla in his hand. He took a bite out of it. 

“How would you feel if I started calling you ‘massive’?” Peter queried over his shoulder. 

“No, no, that doesn’t work,” Flash argued past the tortilla in his mouth. “‘Cause my name doesn’t start with an ‘M’. The whole magic of ‘Puny Parker’ is the… uh…”

“Alliteration.” MJ finished. 

“Why are you helping him?” Peter accused. He spun his head around to turn on MJ. 

“Peter.” Gwen said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. She had specks of red nail polish on from the time MJ insisted on painting everybody’s nails. Peter’s had all chipped off while wall-crawling. “Focus. No Flash. Movie. Pick. Movie.” She grabbed Peter’s chin and directed his head down towards his phone screen. 

Peter smiled softly and looked down at the options again. “I don’t really care. What does Harry wanna see?” He glanced at his watch. Harry was supposed to be back from whatever Norman had him tied up in ten minutes ago. 

“Harry said he didn’t care either!” MJ shouted and threw her arms out. 

They ended up seeing some indie film with a pretty lazy plot twist. The mom was dead all along, or something. Flash insisted that the ending was deeper than it seemed, but Peter thought it was just a dumb movie. They argued lightly over it on the way out of the theater.    
  
It started with a few back and forth remarks. Flash shared his theory, and Peter said the movie didn’t deserve that much credit. Flash pushed what he thought again, and Peter passive aggressively implied that along with the movie being dumb, Flash was too. Flash scoffed and asked where  _ that _ came from, and Peter’s grip on Gwen’s hand tightened. 

“I just don’t get why you always have to be right about things.” Flash accused. Peter’s chest squeezed in on itself. That wasn’t true. 

“I don’t think that’s the case, Flash. I think you’re just wrong about most things because you have a ping pong for a brain.” Peter clarified, and tapped his temple with his free hand. 

“You are such an asshole for no reason.” Flash shoved his hands in his pockets and drifted over towards Harry, who remained oddly quiet throughout the whole thing.    
  
“Whaddya think, Harry?” Peter asked abruptly. And loudly. 

“Don’t do this to me.” Harry responded. 

Flash stopped dead in his tracks. His face was growing red. “You’re trying to make Osborn be a jerk to me, too! You’ve always gotta try to get under my skin-” 

“Don’t call him  _ ‘Osborn’ _ .” Peter stopped and spun around to face Flash. He pointed a finger at Flash’s chest. The angers- the one inside his skull and the one floating around his head- started mingling together. They created a fog in front of his eyes. “You’re just trying to seem smart because you can’t handle that your movie suggestion ended up being a total-” 

“You don’t know how to let things go!” Flash interrupted, and Peter barely registered what he said. All he knew was that Flash cut him off in the middle of his damn sentence, and that got on his damn nerves. Who did this guy think he was? Did he think he could treat Peter like a personal doormat slash punching bag for years, just to deny him the satisfaction of reaching the end of a sentence?

“You’re the one who-” There was snapping in front of his face again. Typically, that would’ve pissed him off more, but his eyes caught dashes of red nail polish. 

“Hey, smart guy. You’re clogging up the sidewalk traffic.” Gwen said, snapping her fingers. Peter could feel the anger melting away. The fog dispersed from around his head and disintegrated into the smoggy air. He heard the snapping of Gwen’s fingers. Snap, snap, snap, 

Snap.

Peter didn’t even know who to blame. Gwen was dead, and it was Peter’s fault because he tried to catch her in the perfectly wrong way. Gwen was dead, and it was Norman’s fault because he murdered her in cold blood. Gwen was dead, and it was her own fault because she left Peter, she left him all alone, she left him to rot. Gwen was dead, and it was nobody’s fault because these things just happened. 

Without a sole person to blame, Peter’s anger didn’t even have a neat place to belong. It wasn’t inside of him. It wasn’t outside of him. It was him. It was. Peter’s rage had become an omnipotent sovereign. No longer was it something to be controlled, or something to deal with. There was no coping with it, because it coated everything, and it was everything. 

Peter got mad at the sun for daring to shine. Peter got mad at the moon for replacing the sun. Peter got mad at the vendors on the street for trying to get his attention. Peter got mad at the birds for chirping. Peter got mad at street cats for killing the birds. Peter got mad at himself for thinking he was any better than them. 

A break was all he needed. A break to condense his feelings into neat, breakable boxes again. If Peter had a week, all to himself, free of criminals and money problems and other distractions, he could sort himself out. Maybe bring himself back to the time when his anger was an occasionally-troublesome nuisance instead of all-consuming. 

Here’s the kicker: he couldn’t  _ get  _ a break. Not because he didn’t deserve it (that was up for debate), but because he had a responsibility. He loved Uncle Ben to death, but that guy had cursed Peter. Cursed him straight to living hell. 

Maybe that was a bit dramatic. Peter felt a little bit better after eating a sandwich. But all of his muscles remained stiff, like they could only be used for violence. Peter was almost scared to slip on his webshooters out of fear that he’d crush them. 

His anger was going to beat him one day. That was all Peter knew. As the years went on, and Gwen’s laugh became a memory of a memory instead of a constant, and Peter lost more and more people, he grew more numb to the feeling of rage. It was still there, but it had dulled- or maybe become so intense that he didn’t notice it anymore. Shouting at people didn’t seem worth the effort. There was nobody to defend- not like when he had his friends- and there was nobody left to upset him. It was just Peter, Spider-Man, and their neverending feud with each other. When he was younger, he’d spend hours beating himself up at night just to get a few hours of sleep. As he got older, he didn’t feel he even deserved the guilt. What good was hating himself going to do? All he could do was sit in the darkness and lose more than he won. All he could do was wait until the other shoe dropped, and then dropped again, and again, and again. 

Of course, nobody could  _ know _ about any of that. What kind of superhero would Spider-Man be if he was a major bummer all the time? So he danced around villains, groaned at the Spidey merch he never saw a cent of profit for, spoke at the memorials of his dead friends, and put on a grand old show. 

That, as it turned out, made Peter more dangerous. His anger was, by default, dormant. He was ready to blow at any moment. Peter often found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, pulling at the skin around his eyes. He was pretty sure he was checking to make sure he was still flesh and bone. His anger was going to overcome him someday. 

  
  


-

Flash’s grave was a weird place for Peter. The resting place of a bully-turned-acquaintance-turned-best-buddy-turned-superhero-turned-dead-guy. Peter got a headache trying to think of everything he and Flash had been through, so instead he just kneeled down and put a bouquet of flowers down on the cold soil. “Hey, champ,” he started. Peter shifted into a squat and rested his forearms lazily on his knees. “Got these at the Saturday Market. It’s been a while since I stopped by that thing, so I decided to get something for you. Hope you’re doing well.”

Flash didn’t respond. Peter grit his teeth and leaned against the gravestone. “Here’s the thing, buddy. I think you’ve pissed me off more than anybody. If I tried to count every time I’ve wanted to knock your lights out, we’d be here for months. But you knew that. I’m sure you knew that. You used to like making me upset. Maybe I make a funny face when I’m mad, or something. Who knows. Just kidding. I know. You hated me because I was smart. You targeted me because you thought I had something you couldn’t achieve. You were angry, just like I was angry. You had it bad at home, so you made it bad for me at school. Because you were angry. And it sucked, Flash. It really sucked. But I don’t care about any of that anymore. I just want to know how you fixed yourself. I wanna know how you got better, because- because you were awful, man. Worse than me, I think. But you somehow turned it all around- sure, it took you awhile. There was trial and error. But when you died, you were- at least I think- I think you were in a good place. A positive place. You were a hero. You weren’t as angry. And you had a right to be. But you disregarded that and transformed yourself into a good man. I hardly recognize the Flash I knew in high school- even college. But I ran into someone from high school a few months ago, and you know what they said? They said, ‘It’s so funny- you’re almost exactly the same.” Peter sighed and paused for a few minutes. He watched a small bug crawl around on his jeans, and resisted the urge to flick it off. “And I don’t think that’s necessarily true. A lot has changed since I was eighteen. But to other people? People that don’t know about any of that? Am I just the same to them?” 

Peter cleared his throat to try and dislodge whatever had gotten stuck in it. He stuck his palm flat against the grass. “Sometimes I feel like I’m doomed. My life never stays upright. There’s always something to flip it upside down. I’m getting real sick of it, buddy. Why’d you have to die?” He knocked on the dirt above Flash’s coffin. “You listening? Or are you just ignoring me to piss me off one final time? I’m not accusing you of anything. Just checking. By the way, it’s nice to have somebody listen for once. I should talk to dead people more often.

“Well, I’m not getting any answers here. You aren’t very talkative and I’m a very busy guy. I’ll see you on the other side. When I get there.” Peter looked up at the sky. “Eventually. It’ll probably be something dumb, like standing past the yellow line. If Spider-Man doesn’t kill me, it’s gonna be this hunk of junk.” Peter tapped the side of his head. He rose to his feet and kicked at the flowers. With a satisfied nod, he turned on his heel, stuffed his shaking hands in his pockets, and walked away. 

-

“On your six, Spider-Man!” Peter shouted, flipping out of the way of a flying trash can. He landed back on the floor of the Dime Community Bank’s glossy floor with one hand in the air and the other pressed flat on the ground. 

Miles ducked below a concentrated blast from the Shocker's infamous gauntlets. He leapt up onto one of the many columns in the bank and shot Peter a quick salute. “Thanks, Spider-Man. I owe you one, Spider-Man.” 

“Anytime, Spider-Man,” Peter replied as he watched Miles twist and jump with ease, even in the high-intensity fight they had gotten wrapped up in. He couldn’t help but feel a little pride. 

“Do you two ever shut up?” The Shocker cried out in anguish. He swiveled around his position in the center of the bank’s lobby with his vibro-shock units at his chest. The slits in his mask glowed a sharp yellow. 

“I don’t know, but what do you think, Spider-Man?” Peter prompted, shooting a strand of webbing up to the dome above the Shocker’s head. Just as a blast of air came barreling towards him, he zipped up to the ceiling. “ _ Do  _ we ever shut up?”

Miles attempted to get a few quick shots of webbing through the Shocker’s acting force field, but each got blown back by the vibrations. “I dunno! Hey, Shock guy! Do me and Spider-Man ever shut up?” 

Herman didn’t answer with words, only with clouds of gold pulsing around his gauntlets. He directed one wave of vibrations up at Peter’s upside-down form, and the other at Miles’ pillar. They both leapt away just in the nick of time. With practiced synchronicity, they shot webs at the ceiling and swung laps around Herman. While Miles swung counter-clockwise, Peter swung clockwise. “Herman, buddy, I know you’re not gonna answer me, but it’s in my job requirements to ask: Who are you working for?” 

“I can help out and make it multiple choice!” Miles added. He let go of his web with one hand, which caused his body to swivel as he swung. He kicked his legs a little awkwardly to keep himself on course. With his spinning free hand, he counted out Herman’s options. “Silvermane, Fisk, Tombstone, Hammerhead-” 

While Miles listed about every crime boss in the burrows, Peter redirected his path by tugging himself forwards with a web attached to a column. Unfortunately, Herman noticed and blasted Peter to the ground. The force of the blast put cracks in the wall and made Peter’s head pound. “Not cool,” he groaned, and narrowly rolled out of the way of another blast. He pulled a poor potted plant towards himself with a bit of webbing and launched it in Herman’s direction. At the same time, Miles took a swinging kick at Herman’s head. The kid landed in front of the Shocker’s hunched form and engaged in a short-lived bout of hand-to-hand combat. He got wiped out by a shock as well, but landed a good few hits. While Herman was preoccupied with Miles, Peter squatted low to the ground and knocked Herman off of his feet.    
  
“Never turn your back on a Spider-Man, Herman!” Peter chastised and leapt forward with his arms held out behind him. Herman rolled onto his back and swiped in Peter’s direction. The blast threw Peter right back to where he was before–crumpled on the floor with ringing in his ears. The Shocker must have upgraded his gear to recover faster.

Peter looked down at his hands. They were shaking. The blasts were more powerful, too. Herman might’ve been more of a threat than Peter gave him credit for. When he rose to his feet once more, Miles was sprinting toward Herman’s front. Just as Herman sent a shockwave at Miles’ chest, Miles zig-zagged out of the way and performed a gymnastic full twist over Herman’s head. As soon as he landed, Miles turned himself invisible. Two strands of webbing appeared out of seemingly thin air and yanked at Herman’s shock units. 

Peter assumed Herman would just vibrate his suit to get Miles out of his way, but, instead, the Shocker tore his arm back and drove it back in Miles’ direction with intense force. Miles, the dumb kid he was, caught Herman’s arm by the gauntlet. He reappeared in bubbling ripples, just to bark out a “Ha!” 

A loud whining pierced through the air, and Peter didn’t have time to shout before vibrations shot out from Herman’s captured gauntlet in all directions. Peter held a hand up to his face to protect his head. When he dropped it, he saw Miles collide with a pillar and tumble to the ground. He lay there, completely still. Peter’s lenses narrowed into slits. 

“Aw, Herman,” Peter said quietly as he rose to his feet. He planted either foot at shoulder-width and held one of his hands out to gesture at Miles. “Now you’ve got me mad.” 

He leapt at Herman with vicious intent. 

Peter was losing the fight. He held onto anything he could during the shockwaves, just so he could have the advantage of being close up. Herman didn’t have super strength, speed, or agility, and Peter did. He only stood a chance if he could meet Herman on uneven ground. However, bracing himself through the vibrations was wearing his muscles out, fast. Who knew what else they were doing to his body. But Peter was nothing if not stubborn. 

A particular blast that Herman had been sneakily charging up in his left gauntlet knocked Peter down with exceptional power. Spider-Man shuddered and coughed on the ground where he lay. “I’ve got you now,” Herman chuckled triumphantly. He towered above Peter. Peter didn’t have the energy to move, and just struggled to push himself to his knees as Herman’s shock units charged up for a finishing blast. 

It never hit. Peter heard an additional sound-a crackling, like thunder and distant rushing water- and a shout from Miles. Bright blue light flooded Peter’s vision, overtaking the warm yellow that shone from the Shocker’s suit. 

Miles’ electric venom strike met Herman’s concussive shockwave with a resounding  _ boom _ . The floor shook, and the chandeliers hanging above rattled. Despite the commotion, Peter still couldn’t find the strength in himself to stand. So he watched. 

He watched as Miles shakily steadied his feet and dipped his shoulders forward. He watched Miles’ head duck down, and caught a glimpse of the fabric of his mask creasing under the force of Miles’ undoubtedly pained expression. He watched Herman roll his shoulders back and brace his elbows as the vibrations kept coming. At the center of it all, Miles’ venom strike warbled and the Shocker’s blast weakened.    
  
Peter knew he had to do something when Miles’ entire body began to shake. Pain shot through his body as he flew over the battle between blast forces and kicked Herman right in the stupid mask. The Shocker fell limp to the ground and everything in the room went silent. He must’ve been weakened by Miles’ strike. 

Peter made quick work of webbing Herman down, wrenching off his gauntlets, and kicking his head once more. Miles lay on his back, panting up the ceiling. As soon as the cops arrived, the pair got the hell out of dodge.

They met back up on a rooftop a few blocks down. Miles was still catching his breath when Peter turned on him. “What were you thinking?” Peter asked. He felt like there were razors on the roof of his mouth. 

“Huh?” Miles responded elegantly, hands on his knees. He was panting. Exhausted, no doubt. 

“What was that back there?” Peter rephrased, setting his hands on his hips. He dropped his arms almost immediately, out of fear of looking like a mom. 

Miles snorted. “I think it was a bank,” he said. Peter huffed and took a step forward. 

“Stop. What was that?” Peter asked again, growing more irritated by the second. Everytime he blinked, he saw Miles’ body shaking. Just a kid. Just a stupid kid. 

“What, you mean the venom strike? The thing I do all the time?” Miles asked, rising to his full height. Peter still had a few inches on him. Just a  _ kid _ fighting killers like the Shocker. All alone. The concept would’ve terrified Peter any other day. Something was off, however, and all Peter could feel was angry. 

“I mean putting yourself in unnecessary danger!” Peter shouted back and pressed a finger to his temple. “You know you’re only supposed to use your venom strike under very desperate circumstances, and-”

“I think that was a special circumstance.” Miles said confidently, folding his arms. 

“Miles.” 

“Peter.” 

“You are not invincible.” Peter started, only to catch what was most definitely an eye roll from Miles.    
  


“Here we go.” Miles groaned. 

“No. No. That’s not what you’re doing right now. Not after you almost got yourself killed.” Peter said sharply. He pointed at Miles with every word. “You can die. You’ve got incredible powers, and using them recklessly like that is as good as throwing them away.”

“Did you miss the part where I took him down?” Miles said, bringing his folded arms in closer to his chest. Peter’s nose twitched.

“Did you miss the part where you could’ve died?” Peter shot back. Miles took a breath to say something else, but Peter cut him off. “I had that completely handled. I’ve been dealing with the Shocker since I was fifteen-”

“I’m fifteen!” 

“I know you’re fifteen!” Peter shouted, throwing his hands up into the air. Rage clawed at his chest. Just a kid. Just a kid ruining the rest of his life. “And that’s why I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt for being so stupid! Get it through your thick head that you’re not immortal, you’re not the big man you think you are, and that you need to think before you act!” 

Miles fell quiet. He tilted his chin down and murmured something at the concrete below his feet. 

“What was that?” Peter asked, cupping his hand behind his ear.

“I said  _ ‘okay. _ ’ Jesus.” Miles grumbled. 

Peter opened his mouth to add something else, but regret washed over his shoulders. Miles was hunched over. His arms were crossed not because he was being defiant, but because he was being attacked. Attacked by the one guy who was supposed to… nice going, Parker. Another one for the books. “Look, Miles-”

“No, it’s cool.” Miles said weakly, jumping away from Peter’s hand. “It’s fine. I get it. You’re allowed to put yourself in harm’s way to help other people, but I’m not.” 

That elicited a sigh from Peter. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” Had he ever said that before? There was a first time for everything. Apparently, that wasn’t always a good thing. Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Why don’t you head home and get some rest?”

  
  


Miles swung away looking defeated, and Peter slumped down onto the rooftop’s edge. He kicked his legs back and forth as he pouted. Miles had a point. That was the kicker. Miles had a point, and that meant Peter was just yelling for the sake of being angry. Peter spread his fingers out and stared at his gloved palms. How many times had he yelled at people for stuff that didn’t really matter? How many times had he shouted at someone he cared about? Was he ever going to be able to stop?

Peter had spent his entire life trying to push his anger down; to sedate it. He kept his fury on a chain leash that wrapped around his wrists so tight it left welts. And when it bit other people, he told himself it was an animal that couldn’t be controlled- a piece of him that existed apart from him, and took him apart piece by piece. 

He looked down at the mid-afternoon traffic and laughed. He was so stupid. He had to be winning world records for this stuff. He’d spent so long finding a name for his rage that he hadn’t even thought about fixing it. His anger wasn’t separate from him. It was a piece of his personality, a problem in his head, a great big thing he’d been accepting for far too long. It was something that made him tackle other kids on the playground and shout at fifteen year olds for being heroes. It was something that drove him too far when beating criminals and it was something that would’ve consumed him if not for Spider-Man. 

-

It was a bad afternoon. No doubt about it. First off, the weather was as crappy as it could get. Pouring rain that beat down on your neck so hard it could’ve been hail, overcast skies, and that languid haze that stuck around the drenched sidewalks all day. The subways were crowded with people trying to get out of the rain. Peter had to squeeze past people in expensive clothes just to hop over the turnstile. The train was crowded, and Peter kept bumping up against this guy with a real mean glare. Peter bit back a sarcastic apology and stared at his phone. Which died at 21 percent. Peter nearly crushed it in his palm. 

When the train finally got to his stop, Peter barely made it out the doors before they slid shut. The station by his apartment was less crowded, but still had enough people in it to put Peter on edge. Just as he stepped towards the exit stairs, a man barreled straight into Peter’s side. Peter’s dead phone flew out of his hand and hit the cracked concrete. 

Peter saw red. First the rain, then the train, then the phone, and now Peter had to deal with some yutz who needed an eye checkup. “Hey, watch-” The man was down on his knees, scrambling to pick up his scattered groceries from the floor. He glanced up at Peter and muttered an apology. He was absolutely soaked to the bone. 

Peter’s anger had stuck with him his entire life. It told him to shout at the short little guy on the ground. It told him to tack the crash onto the end of his ‘why my life sucks and will never get better’ list.

Peter took a knee. It felt like surrender. “That’s okay, pal.” He reassured, and started gathering up the fallen groceries. 

  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  
  



End file.
